Life Is But A Dream
by r3tro Roxel
Summary: His puppet was broken, yet he still tugged the strings to try and make him dance. Russia/Prussia


This is what happens when I get only three hours of sleep, and subsequently come very close to falling asleep and drowning in the bathtub.

I hope you enjoy my mindfucked little story.

I own nothing - if I were to own Hetalia, things would go a bit more like this~

WARNING: Contains necrophilia.

* * *

**Life Is But A Dream...**

He awoke from his stupor with a smile.

It had been a lovely dream, really – choked screams issued from a throat that slowly filled with blood, the sound of metal upon flesh like a metronome as he relentlessly destroyed the other's fragile bones, the chilling sound of shattering porcelain filling the room as he broke his doll to bits…

And now, he stumbled along in the snow, a bottle of vodka in one hand, his trusty pipe leaving a trail behind him – his only companion on that cold night.

It was easy enough to find him, to slip through the front door, head up the stairs – thump, thump, scrape went the pipe against the floorboards as he walked – and steal into the bedroom.

The other lay silent within his bed, silent with sleep, with dreams, just like the dream that had led him here; that dream was causing him to lift his only friend above his head, a dangerous gleam within his eyes, clouded with insanity, and bring it down upon the other's head.

The screams began immediately; filling the room and seeming to push the boundaries of the human body, so loud and unyielding they were. He continued to bring the pipe down - swing, crack, scream, repeat – upon the other's body, aiming to identically recreate the events of his wonderful dream, down to the very fractures upon the other's bones.

As he relentlessly attacked, all the while smiling, the screams never ceased. It seemed as though the walls themselves were crying out as fists pounded themselves black and blue against them as the other man made his best effort to escape, but to no avail, for eventually, all subsided to the swirling tones of red and black…

Stepping back to admire his masterpiece, his rusty metal paintbrush still clasped within a blood-stained, gloved hand, Russia smiled. The crimson paint looked beautiful against the canvas of the room, though the real beauty lay within the other's crumpled form – the focal point of what had once been a living, breathing piece of art.

The body proved easy enough to transport, all he had to do was follow the instructions his vodka-induced dream had dictated to him. Depositing the other's mangled frame within the icy grass that cracked and amplified his footsteps as he walked, he proceeded in marring the Earth's skin as he dug what would become the other's grave.

Several hours had passed, the crescent moon still shone high in the sky, and he was finally done. As he walked over to the other's body, he felt an overwhelming sense of erotic fascination wash over him. His artwork lay in the blood-stained grass before him, limbs twisted in imitation of what could have been slumber had he been alive; his eyes stared emptily from a head which hung loosely upon a shattered neck.

Hands coated in dried blood worked hurriedly to remove his clothes, the winter air grazed his skin and he felt as though his lungs were on fire with exertion as he struggled to breathe. His arms wrapped around his broken marionette, containing him, keeping him from falling to pieces, and he began to tug the strings.

Slurred words escaped his mouth as he moved, culminating into moans that broke the silence of the cold night like a metal paintbrush upon bones. Blood seemed to seep everywhere, drizzling from his mouth due to a careless bite upon his own tongue. His thrusts became more frantic, his grip upon his splintering puppet tightened as he cried out, finally realizing the end to that luscious dream he had been so harshly cut off from.

His mind was hazed with slowly dissipating lust as he stood and put his clothes back on, not bothering to return his battered artwork to its former state of decency, or, what little was left of it. His ice-coated boot shoved harshly against the other's shattered ribs, his body falling unceremoniously into the pit, his limbs twisted and turned in ways only a doll could manage. He smiled. This was _his_ doll, _his_ disturbed little darling – he had made sure of that.

Taking another deep swig of the vodka he had carried along with him, – he owed the alcohol much gratitude, for without it, he wouldn't have been where he was – he stumbled back across the blood-stained yard, not bothering to cover any of his tracks at all. It's not like anything they could do to him as punishment would affect him – he was too far gone.

Giving a dry chuckle, he brought the bottle to his lips once more, tasted nothing, and flung the bottle against the ground, relishing the sound the glass made as it shattered – it reminded him so pleasantly of his artistic efforts earlier, within the other's bedroom.

His pleasure only enhanced by his inebriated state, Russia flung his arms into the air as he staggered delightedly through the snow, the memory of Prussia's beautiful death unyielding upon his mind, and cried,

"Dreams really do come true!"


End file.
